


The Coming of the King

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Canon Compliant, Gen, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27198749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: Imrahil at last sheathed his blade, flexing exhausted fingers against the engravings upon its hilt, and gazed upon a familiar face with a heart weary and yet still glad.  A light of wry recognition was in Thorongil's eye, but no apology, and the passing years lay lightly upon him.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Imrahil, Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Imrahil
Comments: 20
Kudos: 58
Collections: Fic In A Box





	The Coming of the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



> Your prompts about Imrahil's role in canon, and Aragorn's history in Gondor, caught my interest; hopefully I captured some of what you were looking for! Begins during Book V Chapter 6.

Faithless it might have seemed in more peaceful days for the sight of the standard of Elendil to so raise the spirits of a kinsman of the Ruling Steward of Gondor, nearly a thousand years after its last raising. Yet Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, felt no guilt as his heart sang within him: only relief, filling his spirit like water poured into a parched, empty cup as it unfurled in the freshening wind over the war-trampled fields of the Pelennor. He would have fought to the last of his strength for the sake of the great city behind him, his kin, his land, and all free peoples against the might of the Enemy; but the sight of the crown and stars about the White Tree flowing over the heads of a fresh army lightened the stroke of his sword and infused weary determination with fresh, eager hope.

He had wondered, many times over the years, what had become of the man he had once known as Thorongil: the great Captain of Gondor who had been as a hero to him in his youth, who had led the Steward Ecthelion's armies to victory many times and inspired the devotion of the people of Gondor – with the notable exception of Ecthelion's heir. Thirty-eight years had passed since Thorongil had led Gondor to great victory over the Corsairs of Umbar, and his men had returned from Pelargir without him. Thirty-four years since Denethor had inherited the rod of his father's office and began deprecating any mention of his rival's achievements, murmuring once within Imrahil's hearing of _the last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity._

It had not been difficult to discern his kinsman's meaning. As a wild northman he may have come into Gondor's service, but in visage and bearing Thorongil might have lately stepped down from one of the plinths in the Hall of Kings, the blood of Númenor as clear in him as it was in the Steward's son. And in that likeness was plainly rooted the discontent many had wondered at between two such worthy Men of the West. Had the heir of Isildur come to Gondor in the early days of Sauron's return intent upon renewing the claim of Arvedui and Fíriel's heirs to the crown of Eärnur, as Denethor seemed to fear, only to falter as the Steward's health began to fail and his heir's enmity had become clear? Greatly had Gondor benefited by the service of the man they had called Eagle of the Star; but since his abrupt departure, the menace of Mordor had grown ever stronger, the men of the Tower of Guard harder beset and ever wearier as they fought what seemed to many a long, cruel defeat.

But whatever the man's motives, he had returned again in the hour of their greatest crisis – or some heir of his had at least, flying a banner not seen in that land for half an Age. Imrahil was too heartened to see it to resent its long absence, or to curse the obstinacy of stubborn hearts. The wind of Thorongil's coming had brought morning with it after a long hateful darkness and sapped the will of their thronging foes; together, they and the Rohirrim would drive the enemy before them, and questions of purpose could wait for when the work before them was done. He raised his sword in the flashing sun and signalled his knights to follow, heading for the thickest fighting upon the field.

Many more men had fallen by the time the banner of Dol Amroth met with Elendil's upon the field, but they had cleared the field of all living foes in the doing: victory snatched timely from the jaws of defeat. Imrahil at last sheathed his blade, flexing exhausted fingers against the engravings upon its hilt, and gazed upon a familiar face with a heart weary and yet still glad. A light of wry recognition was in Thorongil's eye, but no apology, and the passing years lay lightly upon him.

"Hail, Prince Imrahil, and well met," he said, inclining his head. A radiant white gem like a star shone on his brow; another clear hint to any who knew aught of the lore of the North Kingdom.

He seemed, as Imrahil felt, too tired to smile in greeting; but there was a warmth in his gaze and an impression of enduring strength that seemed to bear up all around him. His garments were worn and travel-stained, but his gaze shone with determination and wisdom. Imrahil saw it, and was grieved as much by the contrast with Denethor's despair before he'd left the city as by the late hour of Thorongil's coming. Once, long ago, the future Steward and the Captain of Gondor's army had been as like as brothers; but as in all else, much had changed in these darkened days.

"Hail, and well met also, though I know not by what name to greet you," he replied, only half in jest. "Though your heritage I can guess. Long has it been since you rode away; much missed your leadership has been in the fight against Mordor."

"Say not that I left the fight; only that I have been pursuing it under other guises. Dark and shadowy has been my path these many years, for the servants of the Enemy are found in many places, not on the borders of Gondor only. But the hour has come at last to join the fight openly, not merely in secret. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the heir indeed of those whom you have guessed. Though you may call me Thorongil still, if that is your wish; for I bore that name for many years of fond memory, and long have I desired to return."

"Would that you had; though I do not doubt your labours elsewhere have been as necessary, and as valorous," Imrahil conceded. "Much has been lost; but much yet remains to defend, and the city sang with trumpets and bells at your coming." He smiled faintly then, remembering the newest, shortest Guardsman he had seen in passing at the Steward's councils, and the little he had heard in passing of the hobbit's journeys from Mithrandir. "We share a new friend there, I think; still shepherding young warriors to greatness, I deem. They call him _Ernil i Pheriannath_ , the Prince of the Halflings."

That brought a wide, flashing smile to the grim face before him; a glimpse of the kinder and merrier man Imrahil remembered from long ago emerging from beneath the cares of the day. He had been only the grandson of a Prince, visiting his sister the Steward's wife, too young yet to ride to battle himself, when Thorongil had first rode into Minas Tirith and ensnared his admiration with just such a smile and a flash of sword. He was Prince and grandfather himself now, and found that the years and the new name had weakened its power very little.

"Much would I have given to see young Pippin's face when addressed by such a title; or better yet, his cousin's," came the amused reply. "Glad I am to hear that he has found a place here. Though I fear it remains to be seen if I shall, as well; or if all our striving shall in the end prove in vain."

Aragorn's face fell in more serious lines then as he turned his gaze to the writhen, blood-stained grass and vanquished enemy around them, the survivors of their men still moving among their own fallen in search of the sore wounded. Éomer, the young, valiant, and hot-blooded King of Rohan, was approaching with his own captains following; above them, the sky glowed like burning coals with the swift approach of sunset. There would be time enough to borrow from tomorrow's cares when more immediate concerns had been settled.

"Shall we ride then to the Gates, and see what has befallen there while we fought? The first circle was burning when I rode out with all the strength I could gather, and Mithrandir had been summoned by the Lord of the City on some urgent errand."

Aragorn's expression was troubled; but he exchanged handclasps with him, and with Éomer, and swift introductions were made among the lords and captains gathered about each of them; then they all mounted once more and rode back toward Minas Tirith. There, Aragorn made his hesitation more clear, and publicly refused to enter under the name of the King; wise perhaps while Denethor's mood was yet so dark. Though Imrahil wondered how the people would feel. Others yet lived and had fought within the Rammas Echor that day who would also have recognized Thorongil under the banner of the Kings, and would wonder not to see the flag that had so timely been revealed on the battlefield flying from the White Tower on the following morn.

His decision, however, left Imrahil with no alternative but to take charge of the tumult within the city, should Denethor yet be drowned in despair, as the most senior both of the Steward's kinsmen and his lords, even had Mithrandir not asked it of him. He gravely accepted Aragorn's choice, then entered the city with Éomer, only to discover more woe awaiting in the Citadel – and a cloaked Captain of the Dúnedain following behind to meet him again at the doors of the Houses of Healing despite his earlier disclaimer.

For a brief moment, as he gazed upon the grey-clad figure, Imrahil saw as if in a dream a distant vision of the future: of the challenges that would come, striving to advise a King prone to shedding crown and royal guard alike at the least provocation to don some other name and slip away about private errands. _Unused to cities and houses of stone_ , indeed. But that day was far off yet, if it was to come; in the moment, his nephew yet lay insensible, and many responsibilities clamoured unmet outside the healers' walls.

He lingered long enough to see Faramir brought out of his shadowed sleep, then left the disguised lord to his healing efforts and returned to the streets of the stricken city. Flying sheets of rain had extinguished the hungry fires, and many hands had been at work clearing ways through the worst of the wreckage in the lower circles, but much work yet remained to be done, and a guiding hand was much welcomed. Recovery efforts had begun in damaged buildings as well, filling more litters for the Houses of Healing or for the mounds already being built out by the Great River. So many had fallen that the full wave of grief would be long in breaking, and little could he do for those left behind but ensure they all had a place to eat and rest ere day broke once more.

He slept little himself that night, and fitfully. There was too much to be done, and though his years as Prince of Dol Amroth and many before that as his father's heir had given him much experience in matters of governance, the scale of the crisis was beyond anything Gondor had faced in Imrahil's lifetime. Victory had been bitter bought that day, and the turn of fate that had left him in charge of the city where once his sister had ruled at Denethor's side caught at him occasionally as a thorn in the chest, shortening his breath and leaving him to wonder how much kinder the day might have been had she lived to see it.

He broke away only once, late in the dark hours before dawn, to seek out the Houses of Healing again and gaze upon his slumbering nephew. The sky was a high dark vault above the stone walls of the city, now black with streamers of flying cloud, now sprinkled with a high twinkling of stars framing the looming bulk of Mindolluin. Faint scents of smoke and char still followed him through the streets as he walked, but the clamour that had accompanied them had begun to fade as the defenders of the city surrendered at last to sleep. Wounded, but not yet broken, the people of the Tower of Guard took breath in the pause between storms.

And in a bed under the care of the healers in one of the few peaceful places left within the walls, Faramir, son of Denethor and Finduilas of Dol Amroth, slept. It pained Imrahil's heart to see him thus; and to know that never would he walk beside his brother again, Captains of Gondor together as high in the hearts of their people as certain others had once been a generation before. What might have been, had Denethor's heart not been turned from Thorongil's before Boromir had even been born? What achievements might they have reached together?

He smoothed a hand over Faramir's sleeping brow, and gave silent thanks that his own children were safe. Elphir his eldest with his own infant son held the fief of Belfalas in his stead with the aid of wife, aunt, and sister. And Imrahil's other sons Erchirion and Amrothos, young yet but older than he had been at his first battles, had survived the day's work unscathed to take charge of the Swan Knights remaining in the city. Yet not less dear to Imrahil were his sister's children; too seldom had he seen them in these recent dark days when their duties had kept them oft in far-ranging parts of Gondor, their paths not often crossing with his, and both had been clear targets of the enemy.

At least in whatever battle came next, Faramir would not take part. One of his sister's sons might yet survive to see whatever end their Doom should bring.

Grey eyes fluttered open beneath his touch, and Imrahil smiled gently at his nephew's sleep-muddled expression. "Rest; I did not mean to disturb you," he murmured, quietly.

Faramir blinked the weariness from his gaze, smiling first at his uncle, then gazing slowly about the room. His eyes lingered for a moment on the bowl of long-cooled water that yet rested on a table near the bed, crushed leaves floating upon the surface, before returning to Imrahil's face. "I feared for a moment that it had all been a dream," he said wonderingly. "I thought I heard my father's voice raised in dire anger; and then wandered for a time in what seemed the barren wastes of Mordor, desolate and scorched beyond all bearing, until another voice called my name. Was he truly here – the King?"

"Not a king yet; or so he says, though the women who serve here have already spread tales of his _healing hands_ far and wide. You knew him at once when you saw him?" A keen perception his nephew had, and the power, as had his father, to perceive much that lay in the hearts of other men; and yet Imrahil had also seen in the instant esteem in his nephew's gaze the kindling of admiration in his own heart, all those years ago. 

"I saw him first as if he had joined my dream: a tall figure, dark-haired and grey-eyed, with a star bound on his brow, holding a hand out like one of the Argonath come to life, or one of the statues in the Citadel. Or like unto my father, in happier days when my mother yet lived." A troubled frown marred Faramir's brow, but he did not linger on that thought; Imrahil did not think the healers had yet spoken to him of Denethor's fate. "More burdened and worn did he seem to waking eyes, but no less powerful or wise. Had the halflings I met in Ithilien not spoken of the heir of Elendil, I might not have known him: but it could be no other."

"And yet that was not the first time you have heard of him, if you would cast your thoughts back a little further," Imrahil told him, smiling wryly. "Oft did you ask of your grandfather's captains in your childhood; of the deeds of valour of the men who came to his service, when he recruited worthy men to strengthen Gondor against the return of Sauron."

No more was necessary for that swift mind to come to the correct conclusion. Faramir's eyes widened, then clouded again in sadness. "I wonder if Boromir knew; such a wonder the news would have been to him. Frodo said that Aragorn had won his support; I spoke in caution against making too much of that, for they had not yet become rivals in Gondor's wars. A more apt comparison than I thought, it seems."

"Perhaps," Imrahil said, wincing, "but I have kept you awake too long. The Warden will turn me out if I stay any longer. Rest, nephew; the city will yet be here in the morning."

"Then some hope has come to Gondor indeed," Faramir replied softly; but his eyes were already falling shut again, sleep reclaiming him to knit up the ravelled edges of his spirit.

Imrahil pressed a first to his mouth for a moment; then took a deep, weary breath and left the wounded to their slumber. Outside, a thin paring of waning Moon shone its pale light glimmering over the stones of the city, cloaking the day's damage in ethereal beauty; a faint shadow stretched away before him as he turned toward the wrecked Gate to see what progress had there been made. It seemed more tireless than he, moving ever before him, sweeping over the streets as he walked. 

So always did shadows seem; yet ever they fled before the light.

Imrahil shook his head at the fanciful thought, and vowed to seek his own bed soon. The morning would come ere he was ready for it, and with it the next decisions to be made.

But also, as Faramir had also seen, with one more thing the previous morning had lacked: _hope_.

* * *

That hope remained as the following day unfolded, slender though it might seem against the revelations and decisions made in the council of captains upon the field outside the City. Faint, but glowing like an ember within, it drove his own responses: to make provision for Minas Tirith as though they would survive the preposterous assault planned against the fortress of the Dark Lord; to laugh in the face of the Enemy.

Two days remained before they would issue forth on their Quest: two days in which he yet stood in the place of the Steward. The normal business of the city had to be set limpingly back into motion, and lists of the damage and of the dead and wounded compiled. No few Captains of the Outlands had fallen, among them friends Imrahil had known and fought beside for decades, and others lay in the Houses of Healing beside their new Steward. New commanders would need to be chosen for those men, and be added to the war councils going forward – and space and provision had also to be found for the Rohirrim, who had ridden long and hard before arriving at the last hour to join their strength to Gondor's defence. Tents could be raised for them, but not upon the beaten and bloodied ground before the ruins of the gate, not until the wrack of the siege could be cleared; but one of many complications set before him.

What repairs could be made, Imrahil set in motion; what men would be fit to march forth again in that time, he gathered and equipped; lists of stores he pored over, and further reinforcements he welcomed into the city, marched up from the South in the wake of Aragorn's advance up the Anduin. Fiefs that had kept back the better part of their men against the fleet – including Dol Amroth – had sent all they could now spare from the defence: a welcome sight, but one that required yet more organization and tabulation. Worksmen and craftsmen were sent to the defences of Osgiliath, making what repairs would be necessary to enable the army's crossing into Ithilien, and clearing up that which their attackers had left behind, some of it handy for their own use. And last but not least, meetings needed to be held with the remaining lords of the city, to ensure the continuance of such necessary tasks once he rode out again at Aragorn's side.

Among those lords, as he had feared, were some few who questioned the right of any man to bear such tokens as Aragorn had brought to the city, renewing the ancient arguments of Pelendur, the Steward of the King who had long ago rejected the claim of Isildur's heirs to Anárion's kingdom. And others spoke in concern of Imrahil's departure and the continuing confinement of Faramir in the Houses of Healing. Should not some other temporary Steward be appointed, they asked, to lead the City in such straitened days with a single voice?

Not even in the heart of Gondor were they free from the whispers of the Enemy, it seemed; though none did Imrahil suspect of serving so direct a foreign master as had the servant of Saruman stationed in the court of Théoden. Ambition and discontent were ever natural conditions of Men. These he dismissed with firm words, clear commands, and a reminder the Faramir was already on the road to mending; that Húrin of the Keys was perfectly capable of commanding the garrison that would remain behind, should another foe approach in their absence; and that any other decisions would be by right Faramir's to make, and so also would Denethor have counselled them. Gladly would Imrahil give up the responsibility, when it was time; but not before.

Easier it would be indeed to ride out and take this one last chance in more active part. To be left behind would be more difficult by far, though he might abide in safety some while longer. He did not envy Faramir that task.

Fortunately, his diplomatic duties included coordinating his forces with those of Aragorn and Éomer, outside the mess of responsibilities within the city's circles. The Captain of the Dúnedain had been a leader of men for the length of Imrahil's lifetime, never mind that of the young King of Rohan; but Éomer had a gift for it as well, a talent for battle and inspiring the loyalty of his followers and a willingness to learn from those more experienced. In some ways, he reminded Imrahil of Boromir, high-hearted and eager to action; his younger nephew might oft appear the very image of the grave Men of Gondor, but as like as they were in outward appearance, the elder had been much more like the fierce, warm sons of Eorl in spirit.

If they met again after the ending of the War – _when_ they rode back from the Black Gates, Imrahil would dwell on no other possibility – he would very much like to promote a friendship between Faramir and Éomer as well. It would be good for them both – and for Aragorn too, Imrahil suspected. The young King brought smiles to the grim Captain that Imrahil saw at few other times, and clearly they had been familiar with each other before their triumphant greeting upon the Fields of the Pelennor.

"I sense there is a great story in your meeting," he said to the younger man, after Aragorn had been called away from one discussion on the provisioning of their troops and the order of their marching. "The stories that have reached my ears are sparsely detailed as yet. I know of his journey, and its purpose, and of the great battle at Helm's Deep. Did his task lead his path across yours there?"

Éomer grinned, as if at fond memory. He did not wear his white horsetail helm inside the tents, though his flaxen hair was braided out of the way behind him and his sword still secured at his waist. Heartier did he seem so, the keen edge of danger always present in him since Théoden's fall and his sister's grave injury momentarily sheathed. "No; that was only his first fulfilment of his promise that our swords should shine together. Our original meeting was much stranger, and yet no less so, I deem, than the story of yours must also be. He stood up out of the grass, on a weary day full of war and ill news, invisible under the eyes of all my Riders until he called out his presence. Cloaked in grey, as commanding as a king already crowned, with companions whose like had not been seen in the Mark in many lives of men. A challenge I was given, and a promise, and though hard has been the road that followed, to a much darker day would any other path have led."

Imrahil remembered hearing Éomer's strong voice raised above the tumult of battle, in that last moment before Aragorn's standard had unfurled, laughing as he assembled a last stand of his people: _to hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking_. But hope had been renewed, instead.

"A habit of his, that seems," Imrahil smiled at him in return. "In the lands of the Mark, do your people still tell tales of the Captain of Thengel whom he sent to Minas Tirith at Ecthelion's call? A tall man, dark-haired, with a star on his cloak, whom we knew as the great Captain Thorongil. I was a boy yet at our first meeting, and such a promise did he kindly make to me: that one day, when I bore a sword for Gondor, should I fight at his side. And so it has proven."

A look of wonder came over Éomer's features; he had not yet heard this story, it seemed. Though there might have been few in Rohan who could have connected the two; Aragorn had left that land when Éomer's mother had been very young, and his uncle had not yet been King. Little reason would anyone have had to recognize him there after the passage of so many years. "Yes, we still tell those tales; they were a favourite of Éowyn, and of our cousin Théodred. I ought to have known, so familiar was he with our customs and language – and yet how should I suspect! What days we now live in! Éothain said at that meeting: 'do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?' And Aragorn replied, 'A man may do both, for not we but those who come after will make the legends of our time.'" Mirth welled up in the young king's voice. "He would know, it seems."

Imrahil laughed. "Almost do I dare to believe that this last chance shall succeed, as well."

"Almost," Éomer agreed wryly; and though his smile faded afterward as Aragorn returned from his errand and they again took up the purpose of the meeting, each carried that moment of wonder forward in their hearts, and Imrahil recalled it to Faramir ere he left the city the next morning. They had discussed some few matters that needed immediate settling in the aftermath of the battle, and had moved on to the plans of the full host.

Faramir listened attentively, though he seemed yet very weary as the last of the fever faded and the wound he had taken from the Southron arrow began to heal in earnest. "When I met the halflings in Ithilien, I said to them then that so great a claim would need to be established and clear proofs required," he said, shaking his head in amusement. "And so were they proved to me: perhaps I should have spoken with more care."

"Do not jest so; our quest is precarious enough as it is. Or perhaps I should constrain you to speak only of success from this moment forward?" Imrahil teased him.

Both understood that the morrow would once again separate them, perhaps for ever: but it was not their way to succumb to the weight of their burdens while yet duty remained before them. And there was that persistent spark yet burning within, like a gleam of starlight on the horizon, far ahead.

"I dreamed again last night of the fall of Númemor," Faramir said after a moment, as the mood cooled. The curtain at the window moved gently in a faint breeze, and a dappled fall of light cast half his face in shadow. "Though mixed it was this time with the vision that led Boromir to his doom. A great wave of Darkness, breaking – and yet a pale light also, lingering on the shore."

Imrahil sighed, and gripped his nephew's arm. "This shall not be our end. Believe that for yourself if not for me. The charge I leave to you is as important as that we carry away; though my heart already knows its own answer, and so does yours, I perceive, there will be those who speak otherwise, for reasons that seem good to them. Glory is fleeting, but duty remains. The rule of the city will be yours now, for however little a time, however unlooked for it might have been. Though I wish I could send you to Dol Amroth to recover, walking the sands with your cousins under the spring sun and navigating only the crash of the waves and the calls of seabirds, you will be needed here instead, to thread that maze with your usual skill and wisdom."

Faramir's mouth thinned, a shadow passing over his brow as he sighed. "It would go ill with many, that I will contravene the wishes of my father in this matter. Yet he spoke the details of his concerns to few, so closely did he hold them to his breast in recent days; and all men know how strong was his sense of duty to Gondor. I hope I shall do honour to the spirit therefore, if not the letter of his intentions."

Clearly, he had finally been fully informed since last Imrahil had seen him. Gladly would he have spared his kinsman's son that news; but glad also was he that he was still there to speak words of less pain in Faramir's ear to help mitigate the impact. "Despair may have wearied him, and malice pressed upon him poisoned his thought; but most would have faltered sooner under less burden," Imrahil replied, as kindly as he could. "Your father was a great man, and a strong Steward, and loved his people as well as his wife and his sons; and so shall he be remembered."

Some of the weight seemed to pass from Faramir's expression again, and his smile returned, wan but thankful. "So he shall. I can only hope to do as much during my claim to the rod – which seems likely to be brief, whichever fate may come. But I hold you from your duties: go, and return again with tales of further legends, such as those who come after will scorn to believe."

"And perhaps _then_ I shall take you back to the sea, to bask in the salt breeze as the summer sun lightens your hair," Imrahil replied, patting Faramir's arm again as he rose to leave.

"Or perhaps I shall return again to Ithilien, and make of it a garden once more; and entice my cousins to visit me there instead," Faramir replied. "There is still beauty there, though deep-shadowed in these days."

"You can take the Ranger back to the city; but that will make him no less a Ranger," Imrahil chuckled. "I think you will find the Lord Aragorn a kindred spirit in such matters."

"I shall look forward to it," Faramir said wistfully.

"So shall I," Imrahil replied fondly, and on that note they parted for the last time before the army's departure. And if he sent Erchirion and Amrothos to the Houses of Healing on this minor errand or that with secondary orders to spend time with their cousin, that was between his sons and Faramir. The last battle beckoned, and time ran too swiftly now for further pause.

* * *

He thought of their last exchange again as the army of the West called its halt the next day, and the horsemen rode on from that camp to scout ahead to the Cross-roads. There, the road that ran from Minas Tirith through foundered Osgiliath to the Valley of the Wraiths crossed the great way that ran from lands far south up to the Morannon. Upon the battlefield of the Pelennor, Imrahil had met Aragorn as the great Captain he remembered from his youth; now he saw the man as the Chieftain of Rangers he had claimed to be in the battle's aftermath, piercing gaze sweeping the countryside ahead with the sons of Elrond and the company of Dúnedain about him. But he had shown yet a third face that day as well, one that teased again at Imrahil's memory now: cloaked as a healer in the city, with a green stone at his breast and gentle hands.

 _Elessar_ , Aragorn had named himself then, laughing as he greeted Peregrin the hobbit: the Elfstone, and in that name had the word run out through the city that night. _Envinyatar_ : the Renewer. Of all the names Aragorn could claim, perhaps the one that would strike deepest at the purpose of the Dark Lord they now rode out to defy. For ever Sauron sought to mar, to warp, to sicken, to break down and destroy all that was good.

With that in mind, Imrahil listened to the heralds' first cry at the Cross-roads, announcing the return of the Lords of Gondor and the reclamation of their land, and knew at once that yet a better choice of goad could be made. What would worm more deeply into the thought of their Enemy, the challenge of those he had striven against for many spans of years already and thought himself far above; or a title and name that would announce the arrival of one with the lineage and power to undo his every work? If their lure was to work at all, to divert Sauron's attention from the Ring-bearer upon his perilous journey, then the more potent the bait, the better.

"Say not The Lords of Gondor," he spoke up, meeting Aragorn's eye; "say The King Elessar."

Aragorn's expression was thoughtful, and by swift exchange of glance with his other advisors conveyed his approval of the plan.

And so the cry was changed at the next opportunity, and through the following days as they marched; and so the ears of Sauron listened. And so his Mouth spoke when they at last arrived at the gates: _It needs more to make a king than a piece of elvish glass, or a rabble such as this._

As indeed it did. It took that which kept the Captains of the Host of the West and their men united as linked islands amid a gathering flood of wrathful foes on the plain of Dagorlad: fierce and defiant despite the insults and ill news they had been given, aiming their spears toward an enemy ten times and more than ten times their number. It took that which kept them standing and fighting through dread and fear as the Nazgûl abruptly turned and wheeled away overhead and the ground quaked underfoot: that last ember of hope kindling into bright flame even as a black, flickering shadow erupted once more over the Land of Mordor, and the Age-old Towers of the Teeth shook and fell, toppling the Black Gate between them and laying Sauron's army in ruin.

Neither corrupted work of Westernesse nor iron battlement of the Dark Lord himself withstood the earth's sudden wrath; the whole world seemed drowned in the thunderous rumble of sound that rattled the entire ruined plain before the Haunted Pass. Mere murmurs seemed the tremors of recent days in that cataclysmic wake. Men cried out and sank to one knee, or braced shoulders against their companions, or braced their weapons against the ground, but Mithrandir's words rang yet in their ears over the thunder: _Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait!_

Most of the enemy's strength turned immediately and fled, chiefly those that had felt the hard touch of Sauron's will the strongest and were now left floundering by its absence, though not all. But what gave strength to the men of Gondor was the ruin of their foe. Amid the quaking and the shouts and the screaming, blades yet flashed – but the men of the host did not stumble or turn their backs, diving forward into the ranks of the remaining enemy as if such had been the plan all along.

"Elendil, Elendil!" Imrahil thought he heard a familiar voice shouting at one point, high over the chaos about them. The banners of the White Horse and Silver Ship had been set on the same hillock, and the singing of the Riders and the war-cries of the Swan Knights thronged the air about him, but on the next hillock Aragorn, the Dúnedain, and others of their companions had made their stand. A red-lit sword flashed there at the forefront, scattering all before it: Andúril, Narsil re-forged, the blade that had cut the Enemy's Ring from his hand returned for the moment of his final defeat. Many Southrons and Easterlings were falling back or casting their swords down and suing for mercy, but a tithe of those who had long been the foes of Gondor yet fought on for pride and hatred's sake, caring not for what wounds they took so long as they also struck a blow. 

"Up Eorlingas!" Éomer King cried beside him; "Amroth!" Imrahil heard his own voice calling, echoed by his sons' as his sword swept swiftly forth as though he had not more than sixty winters behind him. "Amroth for Gondor!"

It was though a kind of glorious madness lay on them all; as though the hope that had lit in them at the sight of the banner of Elendil over the Pelennor eight days before had transformed into something altogether greater and more fell, a spirit of incandescent victory that admitted no thought of failure.

It took long for that spirit to fade; longer yet for the captains to take stock and stare in wondering disbelief at one another and at the twisted, shattered wreck of the Morannon. Many of their men had fallen, but many more still stood, when even the works of Sauron had not; when they had done what not even the Great Alliance an Age before had successfully accomplished. No Man on that battlefield had not grown up under the Enemy's shadow, and even Elf and Dwarf seemed half-bewildered by the sight, as though a stiff wind they had braced against for many a year had suddenly abated, leaving them off balance.

The high tower of dark cloud that had risen from Orodruin's torment had begun to dissipate in the wind from the north, admitting golden beams of light that glinted brightly from armour and sword. Brightest of all shone the gem on the brow of Aragorn, and the storied blade in his hand. The cheer seemed to rise as one from the throats of the Rohirrim, of the Swan Knights, of the men of the Tower of Guard and all others in the host: songs of victory and triumph in several tongues, Sindarin and Westron and the speech of the Riddermark lifted all together in joy. Imrahil lifted his sword high as he joined his voice to the rest. Then he clasped his sons briefly close, making sure they were yet whole, before moving to join Aragorn and the other captains in the space between the two hills of piled earth and stone upon which they had made their last stand.

For the reward for work done well was yet more work: command did not end when the battle was won. But there was a renewed lightness in Imrahil's heart, as though he stood on the deck of a swift ship under a clear sunrise breathing the sea air, not limping across heaped stone and blasted earth amid the noisome leavings of war. Beyond all expectation, they had come to the end, at last – and found that it was _not_ the end, but only a new beginning. One he had not quite believed would ever come. 

Some while later, after the many hours of busy aftermath finally ebbed – the many unexpected prisoners disarmed and secured; the dead and wounded gathered and tended; guards set and scouts sent far and wide; and the army wearily withdrawn back to the previous night's encampment – Imrahil chanced to come across Aragon alone in a quiet nook of thorny land behind the captains' tents. Though they were yet only a few hours' march from the entrance to Mordor, life was returning stubbornly to the earth along the fringe of the blasted lands; he could hear the noises of insects and other small moving things whose absence he had not noted until they had returned. Overhead, bright stars winked unchallenged in the night sky, seeming somehow nearer after the events of the day. The king stood gazing up at one in particular, a hint of loss and wistful remembrance about him.

By no change of posture did he betray his awareness of Imrahil's approach; but a faint smile tugged at his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was low, quiet enough that none beyond that fold of earth would hear. "I was a child yet in Imladris when the dragon Smaug was slain, Erebor reoccupied, and the Sorcerer driven out of Dol Goldur," he said, gaze still fixed upon that storied point of light above. "It seemed then like something out of the distant tales told in the Hall of Fire. High and far off, and not much to do with me, save that my foster-father was put to a great deal of trouble by it. It was years before I understood; before word spread that Barad-dûr was being rebuilt, and Elrond deemed that the time had come to tell me who I was and what doom lay upon my line. From that day until this, from my twentieth year until Frodo walked into Rivendell bearing the Ring of the Enemy, I have known that this battle lay in my future: that whether I wished it or no, through all the long watch of my ancestors, the task had at last fallen to me."

Imrahil had never not known the slow failing of Gondor, the inexorable rise of the Enemy. Even his sunlit childhood in a sheltered castle by the sea had been shadowed by the threat of dark sails from the south; by his father and grandfather looking ever eastward toward war. To have been raised in a peace that no other hale man of the South could claim, so harshly ended ... he wondered where Gondor would be now, had Aragorn faltered under that sharp blow.

But he had clearly chosen duty; and from all Imrahil knew and had learned of the man, had chosen it again at every available turning of the path. And now that path had reached its end: all prophecies fulfilled, the page before them unwritten. Little counsel had the Prince of Dol Amroth to offer for such circumstance, save that which any high lord might ask of his liege. Yet he did not think Aragorn sought guidance; only a moment's space in which to come to grips with such momentous change.

"By what name were you known in Rivendell, then?" he asked, leaving the subject lie. "Three names have I counted for you already; four, if Telcontar be reckoned among them. Surely you were not Thorongil as a child in the North." He had been called that in his youth in the South for his sharp eye, and for the star worn on his cloak; a star which Imrahil had now seen on many of the other Dúnedain that fought alongside him.

Aragorn drew his gaze down from the sky to cast a wry look in Imrahil's direction. "A name you have not heard," he replied, "though perhaps you will think it apt. Estel, son of Gilraen, foster-son of Elrond."

Estel: _hope_ , in the Sindarin every lord of Gondor knew as the language of scholarship and court. Raised by the brother of the first King of Númenor. Someone among his ancestors had surely had the foresight of that line in full measure; perhaps the mother he had just named. "And are there any others I have yet to discover?" he continued, lightly. "My nephew will not want to miss any when you are welcomed at last into your city."

Aragorn chuckled quietly. "If I must account for every name of my childhood, every nickname from the folk of the North who knew me only as a ranger, every epithet bestowed by the Riders of my éored or those who fought under my command in Gondor, or the names given to the men of Rhûn and Harad among whom I journeyed, then I fear we will be here a very long time," he said. "I think I have given names enough already."

"And in those names, your claim has been made," Imrahil nodded, mood taking a more solemn turn. "None are there now in Gondor who will long stand against your coming, once the proper forms have been followed. So I must ask, on behalf of your people – _is_ it time? Or are there yet tasks that will carry you away?"

Aragorn looked briefly surprised at the question, then gave a rueful smile. "The shadow of Pelargir yet follows me, I see."

"Your unheralded departure made… a significant impression," Imrahil replied, gesturing to the tents behind them. The spirits of the city had been down-cast for some time after the victors of the raid against Umbar had returned without its chief architect, bearing only a letter and reports that Thorongil had turned his steps toward the East. The relationship between Ecthelion and Denethor had never quite recovered in the elder Steward's final years; though Ecthelion had lived at least to see the birth of his second grandson, whose grave infant smiles had brought some joy back into the final months of the Steward's life. Imrahil did not truly fear a repeat of Thorongil's untimely departure now, but the question would be asked, and better first from one who would be a friend.

Aragorn shook his head. "Few other tasks do I have before me, now that the chief battle of this war has been fought, that may not be better accomplished upon the throne. The time was not yet ripe then; and the last thing I wished was to be the cause of another Kin-strife, or to draw untimely the direct attention of the Enemy."

Imrahil considered what to say next; thought of the awe on his nephew's face in Houses of Healing, the potential of what could have been forty years before, and the fine tremors of a horse that has been worked too hard and too long coming to a standstill long last. Of what a king could and could not ask; and how heavy had been his own workload when the lordship of Dol Amroth had fallen to him, even after so many years of preparation.

Aragorn was a man triumphant, like unto a hero of Ages past; but he was also a man pushed beyond the limits of endurance, taking up the throne of a kingdom exhausted, injured, and scattered in both population and spirit. It would take time for the rubble to be cleared, for the wains to return from the South bearing the wives and children of the soldiers of Minas Tirith sent away before the siege, for burials and mourning to pass, and for Faramir to take up the white rod of his forefathers. It would take time for one who had spent the last months expecting Doom around every corner to offer an open hand without its itching for a sword; to walk forth in the spring sunshine without shadows under his eyes from fatigue and hunger; for fresh wounds to heal and plans for the future to form in more than wishing.

"You have had a long road and a hard one, my lord," he said more formally, reaching out to clasp the other man's forearm. "But there are many of us now to walk the rest of it with you. Take the time now to rest and prepare; without the threat of invasion, there are fields aplenty in Ithilien where the wounded can recover and companies may be swiftly sent to turn out the last of the armouries and maggot-holes of Mordor. Let the city and her people do the same under my nephew's care, that the King may enter her gates at last when both can present their best faces to one another. The urgency has passed; the next steps can wait until they can be taken with gladness undimmed."

Aragorn bowed his head, seeming much struck by the words, clasping Imrahil's arm in return, while the quiet night sounds filled the air around them. Then he drew a deep breath and squared his stance again, the mantle of leadership once more falling on him like a cloak of power. "I would not have reached this day without the labour and valour of many; and I see that that at least shall not change," he replied, a warm light in his gaze. "There is wisdom in this plan which my heart finds good; men recovering from grievous wounds may find the Garden of Gondor a more cheerful place for healing than stone walls, however nobly built." 

They spoke some few minutes more in less heavy conversation, then returned to the tents as the night's chill began to deepen, seeking among the captains still gathered there in conference those Rangers of Gondor who had patrolled Ithilien for many years. A few marches south, where the rugged land once more gave way to verdant meads along the Anduin and gently rolling hills crowned with trees stretching green branches toward the sky, the field of Cormallen would suit the purpose: situated between the isle of Cair Andros standing sentinel in the river and the hidden refuge of Henneth Annûn, with a fair stream flowing through it on its way down from the Window of the Sunset and flowers now opening their petals among the tall grasses.

It was then, while they were making their plans for the next day's march, that great wings stooped suddenly over the army once more – but this time a source of wonder, not marrow-freezing fear. Three of the great Eagles had come, those that had pursued the Nazgûl as they turned away before the Gate of Udûn, and Mithrandir had returned with them, bearing two small, grave burdens that struck all who beheld them with amazement. None who knew the story of the Ring and had seen the Mouth of Sauron brandish that small coat of mithril-mail before the assembled host had ever expected to see its bearer again in this life – but he and his companion breathed yet, unlooked for, one last miracle on such a momentous day.

The battle-worn Heir of Elendil gave way once more to the foster-son of Middle-earth's greatest healer, and Imrahil clasped his shoulder and sent him forth, willingly taking over those administrative duties that could not be postponed. A hopeful beginning, despite the hobbits' grave condition: that the reign of Elessar should truly begin with an act of healing, upholding the name he would be forever known for among his people.

Imrahil hugged his sons tightly to him that night, heart full almost beyond bearing that he should have lived to see such times. They would grow in strength and plenty, unshadowed by the dark malice of Gondor's erstwhile neighbour, with such stories to tell their own children as should live on for Ages more. He had advised Aragorn to take what time he could to rest; perhaps it was time to take his own advice. Elphir and Lothíriel could join their cousin in the city, but he would rest here with the army and relearn the art of peace.

* * *

There were, of course, supplies to be sent for from the city as the weeks wore on; trips to be made to speak to the soldiers of Dol Amroth who had followed the ships upriver to strengthen the guard of the city; to welcome his children thence and to speak to his nephew. It was some days yet before Faramir healed enough to take his father's seat in the great hall of the Citadel, but the Lord Húrin and Éomer's Marshal, Elfhelm, had had things well in hand in the meantime. And somehow, during all that time in the Houses of Healing, Faramir too had regained that spark in his eye that had been quenched ever since his brother's departure.

Imrahil greeted the Lady of Rohan with a fatherly eye at first, glad to see her recovering after that moment of finding her so cold and still, yet still living, upon the biers carried by the men of Rohan. But it did not take long for him to see the glances exchanged between Éowyn and his nephew, to notice his sister's deep blue mantle laid over the shoulders of the lady, and to read the forming connection between them. He had wondered if there might be some tentative plan for betrothal between Aragorn and Éomer's sister, given the great friendship between the two men and the words spoken of her between them when she had first been brought to the Houses of Healing. But it seemed not so.

She was not a woman of Númenor, but she was valiant and beautiful, and also the granddaughter of Thengel King – who had won renown in Gondor in the service of Turgon – and Morwen Steelsheen, beloved daughter of Lossanarch. A match between Éowyn and Faramir would be a worthy one, both for their realms and for them personally; both had been sore wounded, brought back from the brink by the same hand, only apparently to find their true healing with one another. Unlike Faramir's mother, who despite her love for Denethor had found life in the guarded city a stifling experience, he did not think Faramir's shieldmaiden would falter there; she would be a true partner for him, and no lesser blessing would Imrahil wish for him.

He clasped his nephew close, and spoke these words of support in his ear, and was pleased to see such a bashful look upon Faramir's face as he had not beheld there in many a year. Faramir had not been made for war like Boromir, despite his courage and skill, and in these times of rebuilding he had begun to truly flourish. The courtship was as one more flower blooming amid the renewal of the land; one that he cautioned his uncle had not yet reached an acceptance, but for which he held every hope.

Imrahil spoke not of the matter to Éowyn's brother upon his return, for that would be the couple's news to share in its proper time; but he did bring the question up with Aragorn when he returned to the tents of Cormallen with reinforcements and fresh supplies. "One thing only is still lacking, in the triumphant return of the King; a Queen, that our people may know the line will continue," he said, watching the expressions shift in Aragorn's face. "I had thought at first that you had a shieldmaiden in mind; or that you would seek a wife from among the noblewomen of Gondor. But you have not spoken of it, nor returned to the city, nor added your summons to Éomer's. Have you already a wife in the North, and wait now for her arrival? A word only will keep me quiet on the subject; but it is a question that will be much asked."

He had waited to bring the subject up in private, and he could see from the distant quality of Aragorn's gaze as he directed his gaze toward the northern wall of the tent that he had chosen correctly. "Not yet a wife," he said at last; "but one who has held my heart in her keeping for many long years. She it was who wrought the banner of Elendil I bear; but I made a promise to her father long ago. One that I hope shall soon be kept, if all goes well, after I enter the city."

He would speak no more of the matter; but the banner was eloquent enough on its own. Imrahil stepped out of the king's tent and looked once more up at the standard flowing in the breeze with wondering eyes: a vast span of cloth, set with gems for the Seven Stars, the White Tree wrought with threads of mithril and gold.

Hope not only for the return of the Heir of Elendil to Gondor, but for the connection between a man of high destiny and a woman clearly of skill, knowledge, and wealth beyond most. And very highly born, if her father could demand a price so lofty for her hand that it had not yet been fulfilled. Many years must that standard have been in the making; many years of devotion, now so near their fulfilment. Let Aragorn keep his secret; but that much Imrahil would quietly share at least: that there would _be_ a Queen, and a worthy one, lest the subject be canvassed by others with less gentle words.

* * *

Time ran swiftly onward, then; the wounded healed, including the three hobbits that had been brought to Aragorn for his care. The land flourished, and Minas Tirith was made ready. At the proper time, the army packed up, took ship from Cair Andros down to Osgiliath, and marched thence up to the Pelennor, where ceremony and celebration shook what seemed half the population of Gondor crammed within the city's walls to watch. The crown of Eärnur passed through many hands to rest at last upon the King's head, and music and laughter filled the hearts of the people for the first time in what seemed years uncounted.

The trumpets blew, and the long wait was over; the King had come to Minas Tirith at last.

Imrahil watched as honour was given; as gifts were shared; as Éowyn smiled over the meeting of her husband-to-be and her kingly brother; as his own daughter spoke to the young King of Rohan with a new-caught spark in her own eye, and wished only that those lost to the long war, in one way or another, could have been there to see those days arrive. The scars of the long war could still be seen, but they were healing, and faded now into memory. A White Tree grew again, flourishing, in the Court of the Fountain; how his sister would have rejoiced to see it bloom, and even, he thought, her husband also. For such enmity as had grown there did not come from indifference. And the Queen arrived at last on the Eve of Midsummer, wise and elven-fair and bringing the Sceptre of Annúminas and a gathering of companions such as Gondor would never see again in her party.

The niece of Elros Tar-Minyatur: as fair as Lúthien, as kind as their Steward's mother of cherished memory, as beautiful as the evening star, and as plainly in love with their new King as any romantic heart could have hoped to see. The line of the Kings of Númenor not only continued, but would be renewed; and their Ruling Stewards would still be honoured, Faramir given his own princedom and bid keep the white rod for his future children to serve beside the king's. Had any objections yet remained among the lords of Gondor, that would surely have marked their end.

 _Now come the days of the King_ , it had been said; _may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure_. And so it was.

Over the weeks that followed, one by one, the former companions scattered to their own lands. Many, Imrahil knew, would never be seen in Gondor again; and at such partings there were many embraces and tears. Some even his own. But many others spoke words of farewell only temporarily given against future reunions; bonds had been formed that he had no doubt would endure for the entire lives of those so connected.

And some waited yet to grow. Imrahil gave his daughter his blessing to travel with their party to Rohan when the Rohirrim returned to bear their Fallen home for burial, though it wearied him to so soon ride such another great distance. He was not yet old, but he was no longer a young man, and his own feet longed for home.

Councils there would be in plenty in Minas Tirith in the future; visits to be made to Emyn Arnen, where Faramir would establish a home for himself and his wife amid the rebuilding of Ithilien; and in time, if another courtship was indeed kindled between child of the sea and child of the plains, perhaps another visit on some future date to the Riddermark. If he must yield up his youngest and most precious child to any suitor, the valiant and good-humoured King of Rohan would make a worthy son, wholly apart from the additional tie it would create between their allied lands. But as soon as the ceremonies in Edoras were complete, the sea called him back to its sandy verge, and he was glad to go.

The day after the celebration of return, after the Swan-Knights returned to their families for further rest and his own family gathered together in greeting, Imrahil went out to the battlements in the early morning hours alone. Perhaps it was the lingering trace of elven-blood passed down by his ancestors, drawing him ever back to gaze upon the Sundering Seas no mortal could cross; or perhaps it was merely the familiarity of his own domain that filled his morning with peace there. Below, the susurrus of sea-water lapping against stone filled the air; above, the calls of seabirds were poignant in their familiarity. Such were the sounds of his home: as with the signs of life he had observed on the borders of Mordor, fully missed most in the moment of their return. 

The sea beneath his view was dark yet with the shadow of the castle's walls as the sun rose, but further out, bright flashes of golden light rode the crests of gentle waves rolling in the mild morning breeze. There had been a light ash-fall, he had been told, after the great clouds pouring forth from Mordor had darkened the skies during the war, but all had since been swept away. The sea-border of his fief stretched to both sides within his view, healthy and flourishing in the dawn of the Fourth Age of the world.

It had been only months since he had grimly rode toward his kinsman's relief, taking only seven hundred knights with him, certain that he was leaving his own home behind to a dire siege. Certain that the end of Gondor sailed up the coast with the Corsairs of Umbar, returned after thirty-eight years to take their vengeance in timely concert with the forces of Mordor; but determined to do what he may that some, at least, of his people would survive. Losses there still had been; but on such a morning, after such a spring and summer, he could only stand there upon the brink of his world, gazing toward the Uttermost West with a full heart.

Above, a gilded blue banner bearing the tokens of the Ship and Silver Swan snapped in the breeze. Imrahil gazed up at it, reminded again of all that had changed since that moment on the Pelennor when he had first beheld the standard of Elendil, and lifted his voice in joyful song.


End file.
